


Olfaction

by 3White_Mage3



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:17:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3White_Mage3/pseuds/3White_Mage3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc's had to make a hurried trip to The Icebox where he's unpacking and pulls out his favorite t-shirt with a very obvious and very incriminating stain on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olfaction

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by a wonderful piece (Dirty Clothing) written by a great writer, Cake_isnt_pie_sam, who has given me explicit approval to reference it and reinterpret it for the PR fandom. Thank you, Cake_isnt_pie_sam (try saying that twenty times really fast). I love your work and I thank you for your permission to do this.
> 
> The change from past tense and present tense between sections one and two is intentional. 
> 
> Ginormous thanks to jujitsuelf for not only motivational support (she knows how long I've had this bottled up) but also for beta-ing this story, which I've had an inordinately difficult time spitting out. She understands that I needed to get this one out there so I can clean my man pipes (the brain-related ones) and just get past my current block, and she made it happen. Much love, elf woman.

"Jesus fuck, kid, all I ask you to do is make sure the dirty clothes get taken down to the laundry crew every fuckin' week or so," Herc bellowed as he was opening drawers and then slamming them shut. "You don't even have to actually do the wash yourself, you little princess."

His son didn't even give him the respect of pausing in his rubbing of their dog Max's belly, both boy and dog all stretched out on Herc's bunk in their shared quarters. "Don't bust a nut, old man. I'll take it down tomorrow. You'll have your clean knickers back by the afternoon." "Fuckin' girl." (That last part muttered under Chuck's breath since he's stubborn, not stupid.)

"Tomorrow's not gonna do me much good when my chopper's leaving in twenty minutes. I'll have to take the dirty stuff with me and get it done there." With that Herc dug through the bag holding his and his son's dirty laundry, searching out a sufficient number of briefs, t-shirts and socks to get him through his one week at the Dome in Alaska where he had to be for an emergency PPDC Executive Council meeting. "Smells like a fuckin' boy scout tent in here. You been yankin' yourself raw, boy?"

"Huge burden, that dirty laundry you're taking with you, Herc. Pound yourself up on the cross why don't you. Let me know if you need more nails, will ya? I'm taking Max for a walk." And with that his son picked up the dog and left their quarters while the older pilot continued mashing clothes into his duffel. He wasn't supposed to hear the "Be careful, old man," before the door closed.

Herc made sure to dig his old RAAF t-shirt, ratty and threadbare as it was, out of the bag and ensure it made it into the duffel just because it was his favorite sleeping shirt and it had a helluva lot of pleasant memories. Sharing quarters with his son had changed a number of lifelong habits, the need to sleep not naked was the least of which while the inability to have a good wank before falling asleep was among the biggest. To be fair, his morning shower time had coincidentally increased by an average of five minutes as a result to make allowances for his daily Herc time.

# 14 or so hours later #

Herc's barely-holding-together RAAF t-shirt is one of his most prized possessions given that it comes from a time which doesn't exist anymore, an article of inconsequential clothing that reminds him poignantly of a group of comrades -- some of whom became close friends -- who also don't exist anymore. Some because of "natural" causes like regional conflicts in southeast Asia or elsewhere and most because of unnatural ones like the kaiju. The shirt's always been one of the few off-limits items he has in his closely shared life with his son, a life which has decidedly few limits and even fewer barriers. So when he pulls the t-shirt out of his duffel in his guest quarters at The Icebox, it's not hard to guess exactly who's responsible for the big-ass cum stain on it.

Part of him wants to call Chuck and read him the riot act, not that it will do much good. The kid's incorrigible, is the nice way of putting it, the way those head doctors had phrased it. The kid's a fucking brat is the way Herc usually phrases it. "Why can't the little shit wipe up with his own shirts? Better yet, use his socks and give himself a good case of jock itch," Herc thinks.

But there's the smell that makes him pause. That smell that's uniquely Chuck, his boy. And then there's the fact that there's a lot of **_it_** on the shirt. The father in him can't help but be a tad bit proud and he has to adjust himself in his uniform pants at the same time the other side of his brain is registering just how wrong that response is. Just serves as another indication of how fucked up their relationship has become, Herc thinks, at the same time the thought hits him: Is it Chuck's cum or is it someone else's? Has his boy been wearing the shirt while fucking someone? That would wound Herc deeply in so many ways. The thought of someone else fucking his boy brings out the jealous, possessive side that the older man tries to keep under control and keep hidden.

Who is the motherfucker then? That Becket asshole? That little Yank shit with his big boy attitude, big blonde hair, big blue eyes, and big pecs? Herc could see it happening, the guy's got the million-dollar smile and a body that doesn't stop, but it would kill him to know that Chuck had thrown him over for a chance at a pair of pecs, no matter how awesome. Or Becket's brother, Yancy? Herc can see how his boy would be attracted to the confidence and manliness that pilot exudes. Not to mention the fact that Yancy is at least as good looking as Raleigh and probably a helluva lot more experienced at all things bedroom related.

As the Marshall drops into a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to ward off a blooming headache, he realizes that his reaction itself points up so many issues which have been lying unaddressed and underneath the surface since Chuck became a man. Does he have the right to feel possessive? Shouldn't his son have the right to sow his own wild oats just like he himself had for so many years? Can he share his boy if it comes to that?

Herc knows he's letting his head get away from him, spinning a reality which may not exist. But as he sits there with the tshirt in his lap and the smell of his boy on his fingertips he can't get his mind to stop looping on the question of who's been fucking Chuck.


End file.
